Purify
by Dex1
Summary: The Demon may be dead, but war is still on the horizon. Can Sam protect his siblings from the fallout? Can he protect himself?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: So this is sort of a sequel to another story I did, quite awhile ago, called It Was Me. I kind of wanted to write another one with Tessa, but didn't know if anyone would read it. Therefore, this is all pretty much for HYPERLITE.HO who swore that she, if no one else, would like to see it.

That said, I guess I should explain. You needn't necessarily read the first story to follow this one, though it would help. Tessa is a Winchester, Sam's twin in fact, which, obviously, makes this entirely AU anyway. But since the first story was done so long ago and so little was known about the Demon at that time, it veers off from there as well.

Here's what you need to know: The Demon that killed Mary and Jess is dead. John is, for now at least, still alive. Sam returned to Stanford, but no longer shuns his family, or their way of life. And most importantly, just because the demon is dead, doesn't mean that the plans laid out for Sam and all the children like him won't still lead to something sinister.

If you have any other questions, just let me know. Otherwise, on with the story!

* * *

"Worst. Idea. Ever," he says in a hushed tone, bouncing the flashlight's beam down the length of the old hallway. Old. Dirty. Abandoned. Why anyone would want to renovate this place was a mystery to him. And for what, to turn it into yet another just-outside-of-wine-country Bed and Breakfast? Please.

Dean continued his walk down the corridor, steadfastly shining his light on anything that moved, turning only once to say in that quit bugging me voice, "Shut it, Sam."

"I'm just saying…"

"_I'm _just saying, shut it."

"Okay," he drawls, clearly amused.

A dull crash sounds up ahead of them causing both to still and tense, preparing themselves. Until, "Nothing!" resounds down the hall, causing Dean to shake his head, ashamed at what so obviously must have been another instance of his sister's newfound ineptitude.

He works to resist, just as he had that morning when she accidentally spilled his coffee on him, the urge to throttle her, smack her around, even just a little. Because she's going through a tough time. And Sam had told him to lay off.

The whole thing was ridiculous, though. She's a Winchester after all. Normally a good hunter, maybe not _great_, at least not out in the field, but she could always handle herself. Except the last two days. Going on forty-eight hours now, Tessa had been virtually useless to them, unable to remember simple instructions, tripping over stuff and knocking shit down. Even the research that she normally excelled at had been pocked by inattention and drifting spells.

She simply wasn't on her game. In fact, she was so far off her game she was actually sitting on the other team's sidelines. And in their line of work, that was just plain dangerous.

"Told you," Sam snickers behind him. "Bad idea."

Well maybe it was. Maybe it was a bad idea to force her into this hunt, this search and destroy mission involving who knows how many spirits. But it was the kind of thing she normally loved, looking up the history of a centuries old house, especially one that had sparked a sort of local lore. And besides, "She needed a distraction."

"Dean, she just got dumped. Hunting is not a distraction for something like that. Going out with the girls is."

"Yeah, well, you were busy Sammy," Tessa chirps from inside the doorway of what had, at one time, been the master bedroom.

"Very funny."

Dean steps up and shines his light directly in her eyes, making her wince. "What'd you do?" he asks, an utter lack of patience radiating from him.

She swats at the flashlight until he lowers it, saying only, "Nothing. Just a lamp."

"Place like this an old lamp could be worth a lot of dough," he says. "Quit knocking shit over."

"You quit knocking shit over," she mumbles indignantly.

"I'm _not_ knocking shit over," he spits, tossing the light back in her eyes.

"Jerk."

"Ass."

"Tard."

"Brat."

"Bitch."

"Enough!" Sam says, hands flailing. "You guys are both idiots." He turns and starts back down the hall, tossing over his shoulder as he goes, "I'm checking the lower level again."

Tessa glances back at the EMF meter in her hand, the same one that had been acting up for…well, years, and beats it on the side, jiggling it around a bit. "He's in a pissy mood," she says absently.

"Stop that," he says, tucking his flashlight under his arm and grabbing the meter away from her abusive hands. "You're gonna break it."

"It's already broken."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not," he retorts once more, exiting the master suite, squinting at the dial on the tiny machine, trying to make out any activity in or around the hall.

"Is too," she mumbles, the words just barely making it over her lips before she lets out a sharp gasp, all but drown out by the heavy crack of the wooden door slamming shut.

Dean spins around, so fast he loses his balance, falls into his sister, shoving her further against the closed door. He steadies himself quickly, bracing his hands on her shoulders. Both their eyes go wide as the sudden drop in temperature begins to register, then the sound, _slam, slam, slam,_ of every other door in the house being thrown shut.

They share a quick, _time to go_, glance before Tessa lets out a crooked smile. "Told you so," she says with a laugh as he pockets the piece of trash detector.

"Let's go," he mumbles, turning on his heel and yelling out, "Sam!" His left hand remains on her shoulder, tightening its grip when she refuses to spin and move in front of him, head for the exit.

"Uh, Dean," she murmurs slightly, and when he looks back at her he sees that she's still standing with her back plastered against the door. "Dean, I think," she trails off, her fingers working feverishly at the base of her skull. Where her long thick hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Where that ponytail was now entirely engulfed by the closed door.

"Damn it," he huffs as he tries the knob, throws his weight into the door trying to open it.

"Dean," she says again, stretching his name into a two-syllable whine.

"I'm trying." He moves his hands up to her hair, tugs a couple of times ignoring her grunts of pain, attempting to ignore the cold, ill-feeling air that is now swirling around them. "Sam!" he screams again, more desperate. Because he needs his help now. And because he hadn't responded the first time. "Sam!"

Tessa lets out a sharp cry and throws her hand up, blanketing the back of Dean's head, as she pulls him to her, barely managing to keep him from getting his skull split open by the flying object, some sort of large heavy looking antique, a book end perhaps. Seeing another quasi-identifiable thing…a lamp, maybe…heading for them again, she shifts her trunk and shoves her brother to one side.

"Son of a bitch!" he squeaks, seeing the sturdy door actually crack next to them from the impact. "Where the hell did that even – "

"Knife!" she yells, cutting him off. Too slow to move, the large serrated knife – and really where the _hell_ was this stuff coming from?! – sliced through Dean's jacket, barely missing skin, and on through the door, pinning him to it.

"Son. Of. A. _Bitch_," he recites as he struggles to pull the blade out of its deeply embedded place. It comes out fast and strong, and he almost hits himself in the face with it as he stumbles back a step. "Sam!" he calls once more, this time not even thinking about, let alone listening for a response. Not that one could be heard anyway over the steady whoosh of angry air and fairly constant crashing of objects flying all about the old house.

"Hold still," he tells his sister as he grips the back of her head with one hand and holds the knife beneath her hair with the other. Saw, saw, sawing until, finally, she's free, a ragged chunk of brown hair sprouting out from the tight gap between the door and the jam.

Instinctively her hand flies up to inspect the damage, a horrified expression flooding her face. But Dean doesn't see it, he's too busy guiding her quickly down the hall, the stairs, out the door, dodging debris as they go.

"Where were you?!" he hears once outside, turning quickly to see Sam standing there all well and fine and staring at them as though they were the ones lost inside that house, not answering to frantic shouts.

"Where the hell were _you_?" he retorts, torn between anger at being made to worry and relief at discovering his little brother safe and sound.

"I was looking for you, calling for you," he says in that insolent tone he'd managed to perfect over the years.

"_I_ was calling for _you_," he responds, finally letting his shoulders fall and relax, gaze flickering back and forth between Sam and the odd glow emanating from the building they'd just escaped.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief as well, looks to the house and says, "That's more than just a couple of old spirits."

"Yeah," Dean offers.

"Poltergeist?"

"Looks like."

He turns to head for the car, Dean following behind, eyes still perked towards the house. "Do we have any bloodroot?" he asks, opening the trunk and beginning a search for the necessary items to _cleanse_ the place.

Dean only shrugs, lets his brother figure all that stuff out while he monitors the house. Sam's better at that sort of thing anyway, no matter how much time he takes out for school – law school, what a joke – he never seems to forget how to hunt.

It might not be normal, hell, it might be completely screwed up, but these sorts of things were the closest they ever got to family outings. And it had been too, too long since the three of them were together. So even with the fear of Sam being lost and Tess being stuck and him almost getting filleted, Dean could not keep himself from reveling in the fact that they were _here_.

He listens absently, hears Sam murmur something to himself as he continues to dig around. Catches a glimpse of Tessa's gangly legs hanging out the car door, foot tapping impatiently. And watches as the bright white and airy violet colors dance around amid the haunted windows of the house before him.

A beautiful sight for such an awful thing.

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How did this happen? How did she become such a…girl? She'd never been so…girly in all her life. She was raised by a man, among boys who became men, on the road, in and out of crappy motels and exhaust fumed cars. She wore her brothers' hand-me-downs. She taught herself how to shave her legs with her dad's electric razor, unbeknownst to him of course. She knew Judo, Krav Maga. Had been able to plant herself against the recoil of a .45 since age eleven. Other than a single Homecoming dance, she can't even remember a time that she put on a dress. She was no weak, pathetic little girl.

Except when it came to her hair. It wasn't her fault really, it was a Winchester curse, to have great hair and be fairly obsessed with its care. When she and Sam were ten an old woman actually pulled them aside to comment on how beautiful their long dark waves were, sparking a desire in Sam to, so it seemed, _never_ cut his hair, at least not to their father's liking. But let's be honest, even John Winchester was rather fond of his curls, never chopping them off after leaving the Marines.

So she spoiled her hair with floral scented shampoos and intense moisture rich conditioners. And if she had the time, even if she knew that ultimately it would all simply get pulled back in a ponytail anyway, she would style it, blow it straight or curl it into luxurious waves. Perhaps it was a girl thing, but she loved her hair.

And now it was gone. Chopped and sliced and mangled. Taken from a length that almost reached the small of her back, down to one that barely hit the nape of her neck.

And it was awful.

So many things right now were simply _awful_.

"She still crying?" Dean asks as he emerges from the motel bathroom, steam billowing out behind him.

Sam doesn't so much as look up from the computer screen as he says, "Leave her alone, man." Dean throws his wet towel at his brother, grinning at the thick slap that sounds when it smacks him in the face. "Jerk," he mumbles, quickly returning to his paper.

"Tessa, c'mon," he says as he crosses the room to where she sits curled in a dining chair. "It's just hair."

She turns to him with wide glassy eyes, red and swollen from the tears that just would not stop flowing. "No it's not, " she says meekly.

He smiles, ruffles what's left of her hair. "Yeah it is."

"Dean," Sam warns, still not turning away from his work.

"I'm just saying, it'll grow back." His fingers run through her smooth locks and he hides the instinctive cringe that comes, because it really was beautiful hair, and now it's…really not. "We'll just have to look up a hairdresser or something in the morning, straighten it out, even it up." He tugs softly on a chopped clump and gazes down at her, almost wills her to smile. Because in the past he'd always been able to make her smile. If nothing else, that was the one thing he was able to offer his sister.

But not now. Now she looks up at him, face worn with grief, with heartache. And she says the only words that come to mind, the ones that had been distracting her and plaguing her and taunting her for days. "Why did he leave me?"

And Dean can't help it. He's a sucker for women, will do anything for them, lets them turn his strong, tough persona into mush. And this is _Tessa_, so it's ten times worse. He feels his heart break ten times as much at her pain. Feels the hate and anger at Ben boil up ten times hotter within him.

Bastard.

"I don't know, baby," he says, kneeling down next to her, his hand still cupping her head. He can feel Sam looking, knows even he must have been surprised to hear that from her. Because, yeah, obviously that's why she's really upset, mostly anyway, but Tess does not _share_ her personal life with others. Not even family.

Hell, they probably never would have even met Ben if it hadn't been for the Demon. If he hadn't been one of the _children like Sam_, who was also bent on justice and revenge. If he hadn't helped them destroy, to the best of their capabilities anyway, that evil bitch.

And they certainly wouldn't have known, not until they received invitations to the wedding, or saw a ring on her finger, about their engagement, had he and Sam not bonded over their _gifts_. Gotten buddy-buddy enough for him to call and ask for advice on how to propose. _You're her twin, Sam. You probably know her better than anybody. And I just want it to be perfect._

Yeah, bastard.

She sniffles once, wipes her nose with her sleeve and says, disgustedly, "I'm such a freaking girl. God."

"No you're not."

"It's just," she starts, tilting her face up to his, looking him straight in the eye, "I thought he loved me."

His jaw drops, mouth gaping open waiting for words to come out, kind, comforting, _right_ words. But Dean's never been good at heart-to-hearts. And he just plain doesn't know what to say.

"He did, Tess," Sam offers, setting aside his computer and moving a little closer. He turns on his sad puppy eyes and says simply, "Something changed is all."

"But what," she sobs out, no longer caring enough to feel embarrassed about all the caring and sharing bullshit she's been conditioned to avoid. "We were fine. We were happy. And then…"

"Then what?" Dean asks, suddenly interested. Because all he had heard was that Ben packed up and left after some kind of fight. It was over, and that was that. She didn't want to talk about it, refused to say anything more.

"Then…I don't know." She quiets a bit, tries to rub away the tears and steady her breathing.

"What did he say, when he left?"

She shakes her head back and forth for a long moment before answering. "He said that I wasn't who he thought I was. And he was wasting his time. And his…potential. Or something. I don't know."

"Well that's just stupid," Dean says, rising.

Sam, still perched on the bed, wrinkles his brow and says, almost to himself, "Doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does. He's an ass. I tried to tell you that from the beginning."

"Dean," he chides, clearly annoyed. It's true, his brother never did like Ben, but up until a week ago he'd been one of Sam's closest friends. One of his only friends really, since he never actually socialized with anyone upon returning to Stanford. And he hadn't so much as called, talked to him, expressed any sort of…dissatisfaction. He hadn't said a word.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Tessa chimes in, voice newly steady and dripping with false bravado. "Hunt's over. I just want to go home and forget about it. About him."

"Tess," Sam starts, trying to keep his sister from shutting down again.

But shut down was the emotional norm for her already, the most comfortable way to be. So she simply waves her hand at him dismissively as she crosses the room and crawls into bed. "Next time I get dumped, just take me out to get drunk, will ya?"

"Yeah," Dean says, jumping ahead of Sam who was clearly preparing to prod her again. "Sure thing."

"Tessa, really," he goes on, earning him a disgruntled glare from his older brother.

"I just want to go to sleep, Sam," she says, pulling the covers up to her face. Then, her voice cracking ever so slightly, she utters, "And wake up with my hair."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Nope, nada here.

Author's Note: It's short, but effective. Or so I hope. I actually have tomorrow off, so if I am laden with enough praise and encouragement, I might just be able to write a new chapter then.

* * *

"You know you can call me, right? Any time," he says with just enough saccharin sincerity to make her cringe.

"Yeah, Sam, I know." She takes off her seatbelt, moves for the door handle, and turns to him, newly trimmed hair flopping in her face. "You're always there," she drawls sarcastically. "Or here. Or whatever. I get it."

"Just trying to help," he offers with a sly smile, fully aware that the one thing that bugs his sister more than anything else is having people think she needs assistance. With anything. Hell, she once threw a book at Dean's head when he asked if she knew what she was doing preparing dinner.

She had no idea and their spaghetti was crunchy, but message received none the less.

"I'll see ya around," she says through the open window, continuously hoisting her bag back up on her shoulder. Her words float back lazily to him as she turns and walks away, "Later Tater."

Sam waits until she gets to the door, turns the key in the lock and waves a final goodbye before disappearing inside the tiny rundown house. Tiny, _ugly_ rundown house. But who was he to judge? He'd just dropped her off in a '92 Corolla.

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The place was quiet and faintly musty, as was always the case when she was gone for several days. When she _and_ Ben were gone for several days. No one around to open any windows, let in some fresh air. But it was late, already dark, and she'd learned long ago that once night comes, all the doors and window remain shut, and locked.

On her way into the kitchen she pressed the flashing light on the answering machine, quickly turned and backtracked, slapping the delete button after the first message began. Charles Dunn, museum curator extraordinaire and extracurricular supernatural enthusiast. Every time he called it was to offer her a job she didn't want, in a long speech so laden with sexual innuendo it make her want to hurl. Delete.

There was only one other message. Dean, newly alone and bored after dropping them off at Sam's hours prior. He mentioned something about a possible werewolf up in Montana, which apparently reminded him of the hunt they went on when they were kids, the one where Sammy almost go devoured. Which then led him to reminisce about forcing him to watch An American Werewolf in London when Dad left town a couple months later. Which started him on a rant about how unappreciated Rick Baker is now that CGI has come along and ruined good movies. Except the Matrix. Because that shit was _awesome_.

She pops the cap off a beer and hits the save button before collapsing on the couch, eyes falling shut for barely a moment before a soft shuffle causes them to spring open once more.

"You were gone awhile," he says, moving slowly across the wooden floor. "I was wondering when you'd be coming home."

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He just makes it to the freeway when it hits him, a wave of nausea that lasts only seconds, just long enough, thankfully, for him to swerve and pull onto the shoulder. He knows what's coming. First the nausea, then the dull throb at the base of his skull. Then the deep slicing agony of his consciousness being split open.

It had been months, many months, since the last vision. And, truthfully, he thought they were over and done with. Demon dead, visions gone, end of story.

Clearly, that was not the case.

Reality began to fray at the edges, cars rushing by quickly bleeding into a hum he was pretty sure was only in his head. A blaring horn reverberating in his ears as a deep, sharp gasp. Of pain.

And then he was there, inside this other reality. One that was meant for someone else, and had not yet come to pass.

"It's just the way it has to be," he hears, barely able to make out the words over the echo in his head. "Sorry," drifts to him, and he cringes at it's sardonic tone.

He struggles to focus, take in some details. The person talking. The room they're in. Something. Anything. But the only image that becomes clear enough to see is the knife as it's thrust into someone's back. Repeatedly. The only sound now being the thick sucking of metal through flesh, and the wet gasps of the victim.

It's strange, how easy it can be to become frantic even when caught in this dreamlike state. He was nothing more than a voyeur in these visions, but he could feel his heart thrum wildly in his chest none the less.

Because someone dying. And how could he save them if he didn't even know who they were?

_Focus, focus, focus_, he repeated silently to himself. But this wasn't a dream, it wasn't up to him to pick out details here or there. He was simply shown what he was shown. _Focus._

Only one thing stood out. In the end, just before falling back into the sick, skull crushing reality he'd only just left. One thing.

The victim's hand, slapping the hardwood floor as the body fell. The hand that flexed and curled, fingernails clawing for a grip as breathing became more thick and wet. The hand that had a protective sigil etched into it, one he recognized. A Druid mark in black ink tattooed just above the wrist. He had only ever seen one like it, that specific symbol in that exact spot.

And it was on Tessa.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: This one's a tad bit violent: be warned!

* * *

It had to happen on the freeway. Couldn't have hit him just a little bit sooner, when he was still on some side road or pulling up to an intersection. No, it had to be once he jumped on the freaking, packed, totally impossible to turn around or even get off in a timely fashion, freeway.

And she wasn't answering her phone. Home or cell. Which, truthfully wasn't exactly out of the ordinary, but _come on! Pick up!_

It takes him almost forty-five minutes to get there. Forty-five minutes of cutting people off, speeding and weaving and trying not to crush the phone into a million tiny shards after each passing ring.

And when he pulls up in front of her ramshackle little house, bolting from the car and moving swiftly, silently up the walkway, he can't help but be relieved at how quiet and peaceful it seems. Maybe he made it in time after all. With time to spare even.

The light's on in the main room, the one that acts as the living/family/dining/guest room, so he figures she hasn't gone to bed, is probably still up reading and drinking, favorite pass time of twenty-something bookworms. And sure enough, peering in he sees her outline through the nearly sheer curtains, sitting on the couch.

Sitting staunchly tall and tense, on the couch. On edge.

It only takes a moment, even before registering the soft murmur of voices, for him to realize that someone is there with her.

He moves closer to the window near the door, presses his ear up to it even, but can't make out anything discernable. Cheap house though it may be, she knows enough to have it outfitted with things like industrial locks and multi-paned glass. In their family, safety is always priority number one.

He knows he could be overreacting. There's no yelling, just soft and subtle murmurs, a private conversation. But her posture shows something different. And more than that, he _feels_ something different. Not just because of the recent vision, but because he _knows_ his sister, senses her even.

So he picks the lock, not even bothering to be quiet about it, and hurls himself though the door.

"Sam?" she says in a questioning tone, posture still stiff, eyes still trained, mostly, on the other man in the room. Ben.

"Nice to see you," he says with a bit too much cheer as he advances on Sam, hand extended for a shake, a thing Ben's never done before. "Took you long enough."

Before Sam can even comprehend well enough to form a response – because, what the hell is he talking about? – Tessa jumps up, fire in her eyes, and grabs Ben by the arm, flings him around to face her. "What is your damage?" she spits angrily, equal parts pissed and perplexed. "If you're possessed or something would you just tell me so I can get the exorcism out of the way?"

"Not that simple," he responds, calm and cool, and not at all the Ben she knows.

"What are you?" Sam ekes out, hoping for…something. Something other than what he's been thinking since entering the house.

"You'll find out. When it's your time."

"What is – " he starts, but is quickly interrupted by his sister.

"The cloak and dagger, sinister slow talk might work on other people, _Ben._"

"If that is in fact my real name," he laughs.

Unfazed, she goes on, "But it doesn't work on us, so why don't you just quit the riddles and – "

"Shhh," he hisses, suddenly in her face with his finger to her lips. Then, a soft, menacing whisper in her ear, "I know something you don't know."

"Hey," Sam barks, grabbing Ben's arm and pulling him back, away from Tessa. _Trying _to pull him back, away from Tessa. But he bucks wildly, flails out of his grip, sending his elbow back swift and hard, right into Sam's face.

And he can't help it, because it's just what happens when your nose is sent collapsing into the rest of you. He falters back, tears up. And by the time he's able to see, even just a little, through the intense blur, Ben's already got the knife once though his sister's back.

Winchesters are no strangers to pain. It happens. It happens even more for them. _To_ them. And they've always been taught to just work though it, push it aside and move on, do what needs to be done. So it's no surprise, not even to Ben, when Tessa forgoes the typical response to being stabbed – falling and screaming, say – and instead twists frantically around, elbowing him in the ribs.

He almost laughs, because he's still got a hold of her hair with one hand, and can feel her blood ooze out over his other. But when she jerks back for a head butt, newly short locks easily slipping from his grip, while also looping her foot back around his ankle, sweeping his leg out from under him, he loses his sense of humor.

When he goes down, the knife comes with him, slipping from her ribcage with a sickening suck and grind. And just like that she can't breathe, collapses to the floor on hands and knees gasping for air.

Sam tries, he does. Lunges at the man who only weeks ago was such a good friend. But he's still virtually blind, so he doesn't even see the kick coming, only feels his knee hyperextend and crack before he falls to the floor.

Ben pulls himself up into a sitting position and reaches out once more for a handful of Tessa's hair. He raises the knife, barrels it down towards her, and is actually stunned, _shocked_, when she slips his grip and rolls away. Because the girl can't even breathe, he's sure he got her lung.

But Winchesters never stop moving.

Her foot connects with his sternum, and hell, even _she's_ surprised she had the wind to do that, but _thank God_ it takes him down. Just not for long. Certainly not long enough for her to get her breath back. Not even long enough for Sam to drag himself over.

She's on her back now, staring up at him as he holds her wracked body down – just like he pictured it. Blood so sweet pooling along the hardwood, spilling over her lips with every ragged breath. He leans in and kisses her, hard, nothing like he'd ever done in the past. And when he pulls back, he licks her blood from his lips, tastes the salty zest of victory.

Of a job well done.

But he's quickly pulled back, upright, by the neck, knife still hanging from his fingertips. Sam's grip is strong as he pulls the phone cord taught around Ben's throat, struggles with the need to choke him until he's unconscious versus the desire to strangle him until he's dead.

She can't breathe, still. And she doesn't think she can move, not even sure she can really still see. But it looks as though Ben has gotten his grip back on the blade, turned it around in his hand, pointed towards his body. Pointed towards her brother's gut. And Sam doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in bringing the guy down.

It's happened before, too many times to count, to all the Winchesters. That quick, intense burst of adrenaline that no one sees coming, not even the person it possesses. There's no trying involved. It just happens. There's no thinking, only doing.

She shifts under the Ben, who can't really see her, vessels now popping in his eyes, still with his head thrown back into Sam. And she twists the knife from his grip, just as his hand begins its arc up to the intended target. It virtually slides right out, his fingers too weak to hold tight.

She knows he's close to unconsciousness, right there really. His eyelids are probably fluttering shut, brain temporarily shutting down. And without the knife, and still being in this state, he's really no threat at all.

But her entire body screams in a pain she's never come close to feeling before. And he did that. And Sam's face is painted with a crazy sort of rage she's never seen, not even on their father. And he did that too.

So she follows through on the adrenaline rush, gives in to what her body wants to do, no matter what her heart says. And she shoves the blade into his chest, pushing with every ounce of strength she doesn't really have. Scraping along the ribcage. On through his heart.

And she twists the knife.

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It could have been while he was in the shower. Or out at the bar, struggling to hear the cute blond next to him over the heady din of music and drunks. Or it could have been while he was zoning out in the car on the way back to her place, her voice droning on in his ear about – _good Lord, was it her cat?_ Or maybe it was while he was…otherwise preoccupied.

Either way, he didn't hear the phone ring, not once.

So it wasn't until late the next morning, after getting back to his motel and showering up, that he got the message. Sam's voice, terse and tense, uttering five simple, terrifying words. _Dean, something happened. Hurry, man._

And he hightailed it out the door, aiming wildly for California.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Absolutley nada to my name...except my car, but that's not in this story.

Author's Note: I hope this isn't playing out too slowly for you...I tend to build stories more than some. And occasionally that can lead to a lot of talky-talky. So if it seems somehow forced or boring or whatever, just let me know. Until then...read!

* * *

"So she's gonna be okay?" he asks, his words running right over the top of Sam's rehearsed repetition of the doctor's prognosis.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, turning off the medical jargon that even he didn't really understand. "Three or four days and they'll release her."

"Good, good." Pale yellow and sickly green tiles dance around Dean's feet as he continues his frantic pace, still too hopped up on adrenaline to keep still. He made record time, blowing far beyond any and all posted speed limits, weaving wildly in and out of the early day traffic.

"I don't know," Sam starts, "how she'll be, you know, mentally. I mean, dude…she killed her fiancé."

"Asshole," he mumbles, a relatively involuntary reaction to the mention of Ben.

"Dean, it wasn't him."

"Right."

"No, I mean…he would never…there was something…"

Dean whips around and glares at his brother. Making excuses, for something like this? But as much as he never liked Ben, never trusted him – though he wasn't sure why – even he had to admit that something very odd had happened. And besides, the guy was Sam's friend, no matter how ridiculous that now seemed, he knew his little brother cared about him. Of course he'd try to justify this. Somehow.

So he drops the sneer, which takes some doing, and tries to focus on the more important issues at hand. "How's your leg?" He indicates the knee brace with a nod.

"Fine. No big deal. Just hyperextended," he says with a shrug.

"Shouldn't you be on crutches or something?"

"Don't need them."

The corner of Dean's mouth perks into a sly smile as he ducks his head. "Couldn't find any tall enough for you, could they, Jolly Green?"

"Ha ha," he smarts back, already turning to hobble down the hall.

"Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of. This is a hospital. They're probably used to seeing all sorts of bizarre medical oddities."

He stops short, causing Dean to nearly crash into him. "I am not an _oddity_," he says through tight lips.

"Whatever you say, Stretch."

He shakes his head in disdain, lumbers on a few more feet, and stops in front of an open door, making a an overdone sweeping hand gesture to guide Dean in. "She looks like shit," Dean utters absently, shuffling over to his sister's bed. Then, glancing back up at Sam and his broken swollen nose, he adds with a grin, "almost as bad as you."

"She can probably hear you. They have her pretty pumped up on pain meds, so she's been kind of in and out. But I don't think she's really sleeping."

Dean leans in closer, as if investigating, peering at Tessa's face. "I'm not," she grumbles, unexpectedly enough to give him a jolt, make him jump back in surprise. She doesn't open her eyes, but her lips curl into a small smile just the same, somehow realizing she managed to scare him.

"Jerk," he mumbles, eyes darting between the identical, clearly amused, expressions on his siblings' faces.

"The good news," Sam says, ignoring his brother as he awkwardly lowers himself into a chair, "is that the cops shouldn't be bugging us. They seem to think it was pretty straightforward. Self defense from domestic violence."

Dean searches the room briefly and finds another chair for himself, pulls up next to the bed opposite Sam. "And we don't think that's what happened?" he asks in the most diplomatic way he can muster.

"Okay," Sam wrinkles his brows and leans into his hands, typical _thinking_ position. "Well, every vision I've had has been connected to the demon."

"Which we killed."

"Or thought we did."

"So it's still alive, still out there?"

"Maybe, I don't know."

Tessa stirs and speaks, words gooey and worn, eyes still shut. "All connected."

"What?" Dean asks, leaning closer.

"All of you," she says in a _duh_ manner. "You're all connected. Like dots," she finishes with a giggle.

"O-kay. Whatever you say, Loopy."

"No," Sam says, sitting upright. "No, she's right. Me and Ben, and all the others…like us. We're connected, maybe even without the demon."

"Okay," he drawls, deep and interested. "So you had a vision of Ben killing Tess because you're somehow still connected to Ben? Or…were."

"Yeah, maybe. I mean, we talked about it before, Ben and I, about how our…talents or whatever, didn't really go away after the demon died."

"Wait, what?" Tessa asks, eyes popping open as she turns and struggles to sit up.

Dean takes a hold of her shoulder and pushes her back down, keeps her in place, all the while staring at Sam with an expression that mirrors his sister's words. "I thought you said you haven't had visions since then?" he asks, a little too accusingly.

Suddenly nervous, Sam falters in his response. "I – I haven't. Not really."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I haven't had any visions, not…full blown ones. Just some dreams. And, you know, a couple of times, I sort of…moved stuff."

"Spoon bender," Tess shoots out amid giggles as she falls back against the pillow Dean's been struggling to hold her down to. Then, just as soon as she seems to relax, "Wait, what about Ben?"

Sam and Dean share a look over their sister, an embarrassed yet amused one that quickly turns into – for Dean anyway – an _answer the question_ glare.

"He said he was still…communicating."

"With demons?"

"Well, yeah," Sam responds hesitantly, looking on as his brother's posture stiffens, face hardens. It was always harder for Dean, to trust Ben, or anyone like him really. Sam always figured the only reason he didn't jump to the conclusion that _he _was somehow evil, that his visions and abilities were meant only for horrible, unnatural things, was because he was his brother. But Ben wasn't family. He didn't know him like he knew Sam. And in all fairness, communicating with demons? That is a talent people should probably be leery of.

But all Sam ever saw was a guy who was struggling with something just like he was. A gift, a destiny, a life, neither of them knew anything about. Yeah, maybe they were connected on some sort of supernatural, cosmic level. Anything's possible. But it was the shared freak status, the mutual fear of the unknown, fear of themselves, that had strengthened their bond.

Until he walked out Tessa, whom he claimed to love. And refused to return any of Sam's phone calls. And, essentially, fell completely off the radar, according to other people he knew. And then, of course, tried to kill both him and his sister.

Dean turns to Tess, whose eyes are now wide open, though glossed with an exhausted sheen, and asks, "He didn't tell you that? That he was still talking to them?" His tone is angry and disgusted, enough so that even she is put ill at ease. She simply shakes her head, no.

Turning to Sam, bitter glint still reflected in his eyes, he says, "What did he talk to them about? Did he say?"

"No. No, he didn't. It was just dreams mostly. He said he thought it was them, interrupting his dreams, messing with his mind." He turns to Tessa, barely able to make eye contact with her. "He didn't want you to worry," he offers as means of an explanation.

Dean ducks his head a bit to capture Sam's eyes. "_He_ didn't want _her_ to worry? What about you, Sam? Were you concerned at all about this? About your sister being alone with someone who has these…connections to demons?"

"It wasn't like that. They just talked to him, told him things."

"Like, kill your girlfriend?!" he shouts, jumping up and knocking the chair down behind him. "Could that have been what they were telling him, Sam?"

The two brothers lock eyes for a long moment, fear and anger emanating from one's, a newfound grief dripping from the other's. Neither brake the stare until a young nurse pops her head in and asks if everything's okay. And even then, even as Sam apologizes for the noise and Dean reaches down behind him to right the chair, even takes a seat in it once more, his gaze never leaves his little brother's face. Because, _damn it, Sam, what were you thinking?_

And Tessa must have a similar feeling, because when she turns and says, "What _exactly_ did he say?" her mouth is tight and drawn, droopy eyes shot through with fire.

As much as he would like to simply drop his head and shrug – because that's what you do when you were wrong and everyone knows it – he straightens his posture and says, "I think they were telling him things, things he didn't want to hear." Because right now, there's no time for guilt or remorse. "The last time I talked to him he seemed kind of upset about it." And the only way to figure things out is to let others in. "Said they were…interrupting his thoughts." No matter how it might make him look. "I told him he was just being paranoid."

"Was he?" she asks, clearly hopeful, though for which response Sam was unsure.

"He didn't always know, couldn't always tell, what was _them_ and what was just his conscience or inner monologue, or whatever. And I knew he was stressed, had been for awhile, so I just figured…yeah, I thought he was being paranoid." In a voice so low it's barely discernable, he chokes out, "I didn't know."

Tessa grabs his hand, forcing his eyes to flicker up to hers. "Tell me," she says, tight and measured, "exactly what he said."

His head inadvertently nods as he looks away. "He said that they wanted something. He thought they wanted something. But they couldn't get across what. That's why he wasn't even really sure if it was them, because normally he'd understand them so well. And this time it all seemed…garbled. Like something was lost in translation. He said that had never happened before."

"When was this?" Dean asks, still staring hard at his brother, all the while rubbing soothing lines up his sister's arm.

"A month ago, maybe. The last couple times I talked with him, over the last couple weeks or so, he seemed fine, even…cheery."

"Yeah," Tess adds, a confused look taking root on her face, "that's true, he did. It was weird. Like he went from being really stressed to happy-go-lucky overnight."

"I asked him about it. He just said it was over, or all cleared up. Something like that."

"What was he so stressed about?" Dean asks.

"House needed repairs. Wedding stuff. Work."

"What about work?"

Tessa wrinkles up her nose as though trying to recall. "There was a lot of it. Don't know why, never got to the bottom of it. But we were heading all over for exorcisms. And some of them were really weird too." Her eyes close as she stretches her head back into the pillow, grimacing at a pain somewhere before going on. "Usually it's pretty straightforward stuff. But they've been tougher lately, like the demons don't want to leave and fight tooth and nail to hang on. They're not usually that…tenacious."

"Did he ever talk to them, the demons that were possessing people?"

"No. No, he could only communicate with them when they were in their natural state. What'd he call it?" she asks herself, searching briefly in the back of her foggy mind for the answer.

But Sam comes up with it first. "Pure form."

"Yeah, that's it," she says with a sloppy snap of her fingers. "Yeah, but he started acting kind of funny around them, sometimes. Certain ones, the difficult cases, it was like he was…unfocused. I just figured, they were taking so long, he got antsy. Know I did."

"Maybe not," Dean offers, scooting to the edge of his chair. "Maybe he was getting weirded out because he was hearing things. Demon voices, I guess."

Sam looks at his sister, her eyes closed, face unresponsive, and assumes she's fallen into that drug-induced quasi-sleep again. "Yeah," he says halfheartedly, "maybe. If there was a reason for the possessions, outside of just wanting to mess with people and cause trouble, maybe the other demons were trying to let him know that. To keep him and Tess from exorcising them?"

Dean simply nods before falling back exhaustedly into his chair. Truth is, only one person knows what Ben heard, and he was dead. So how the hell were they supposed to figure this one out?

"Hey, Sammy," he says suddenly, breaking the silence. "Did you call Dad?"

"No," he responds, only now realizing his oversight.

"Maybe you should."

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**_Yay, John! Oh, how I miss him._**

**_Anywhoo, go ahead review, if you please. It would make my day._**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still, sadly, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Author's Note: Admittedly, there's little story developement in this chapter, more chock-full-of character development...primarily John, because, I'm sorry, but I love and miss the man so much! Anyway, tender moments ahead, be warned.**

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"Okay, new rule," he says, leaning on the wall just outside his daughter's hospital room. "I get a phone call upon admittance to any hospital." 

Sam smirks, lets out an indignant snort. "Does that rule apply to the times you fall off the radar and refuse to answer your phone?"

"Are we doing this again?" John asks, shooting his son a contemptuous glare. Because now is _really_ not the time.

"It was just a question," he replies smartly, either completely unfazed by his father's tone, or actually pleased to push it.

"Don't start."

It takes one long, angry sneer from John to get Sam's head to drop and the words, "Yes, sir," to tumble from his mouth in one exhausted breath. Too tired to argue, too tired to _start_.

John turns to Dean, takes in his ragged appearance as well, and shoots his thumb towards the exit, a wordless order. "I'll stay here. I want to talk to her when she wakes up anyway," he says softly.

"She doesn't know anything more than we've already told you."

"Maybe I just want to talk to her, Dean. Now go."

But it's Sam who interrupts next, grabbing onto John's arm as he turns to enter the hospital room. "What if some_thing_ still wants her dead?" he asks in a conspiratorial fashion.

"Then I'll be here."

Sam rolls his eyes, the red-tinged whites lobbing loosely beneath his lids. "That's not what I mean." Of course she'd be safe with him, assuming otherwise would be nothing short of ludicrous. But if there's one thing he knew from his time hunting, and simply living, as a Winchester, being surrounded by real, true evil, it was this: if something wanted her dead, it wouldn't stop, no matter how many of her psychic boyfriends got killed along the way.

"I know what you mean, Sam. And we'll figure it out. We always do, right?" he says gently, encouragingly. Sam nods, barely perceptively. "You two just need to get some rest first. So go." He finishes with a raised eyebrow and a glance at Dean.

Always the first to follow Dad's orders, and the one to lead his siblings, Dean drops his hand onto Sam's shoulder, guiding the still reluctant man towards the exit and whatever hotel they can find nearby.

John simply watches them leave, shoulders slumped, each taking cues from the other, shuffling along, nearly leaning on one another due to pure exhaustion. Due to trust and faith. For all their faults – Sam's uncanny ability to pick fights and push John's buttons, Dean's _need_ to be told what to do, always just a little too eager to follow his orders – his boys at least had managed to hold to the number one thing he'd worked so hard to instill in them. Blood is thicker than water. Family first. Always have each other's backs.

All of his children were good at that much at least.

He enters the room, dark but for the one glowing light above Tessa's bed which adds an air of comfort to an otherwise sterile setting. He looks down at her and smiles, only mildly surprised to see her hazel eyes gazing up at him. "You're awake," he says softly, the words rumbling to her ears.

"I told them they didn't have to call you," she murmurs, pain and fatigue lacing her voice, a faint smile trying to cover it.

John lowers himself slowly onto the bed, shifting and sinking the mattress just enough for her body to roll close to his, hip to hip. "I wasn't far."

"Guess not," she breathes out, eyes flickering towards the clock, noting how quickly he had arrived, mere hours.

"Besides," he says, grasping her hand with his, letting his thumb rub soft lines along her knuckles, "we instituted a new rule."

"I heard. You know," she starts, cocking an eyebrow, "if we have to call you _every time_ one of us is hospitalized, that's gonna be one hell of a phone bill."

He shrugs, "Bill Jameson's paying for it," he says, referring to yet another stolen identity.

They sit in silence for a moment, Tessa letting her heavy lids fall shut once more, barely able, through the haze of medication, to stay alert for more than five minutes at a time. John doesn't move, doesn't even shift his weight, not wanting to disturb his daughter. He simply continues the small caress, worn thumb soothing away.

He's seen her like this before, bathed in the artificial light, the harsh glow of a hospital room, machines beeping and buzzing and dripping all around. He's seen all of his children like this before, and each time seems harder than the last. It's just not something you can get used to. If anything, the fear and pain and, oh God, the guilt increases with each passing injury. Every broken bone and bloodstained piece of flesh, tearing away another chunk of his heart. Every fractured dream and crushed hope – of something real and normal and true – slicing through to his soul. Because they were his children. And they deserved better. And he never gave them _better_.

Part of him felt much freer during those months away, when he cut off all contact with them. He had an excuse then, not to see Sam small and broken and lost after losing Jessica. Not to see Dean weak and scared – because if anybody could see through his son's cover right down to the fear beneath, it was John – when he was "dying".

He loved his children dearly. But sometimes, being around them was just too much. Even when they were seemingly fine, all bones and skin intact, talking and laughing and behaving like "normal" young people, it pained him. Because he knew better. He knew every old injury and scar that still troubled them, still pocked their pale flesh.

The ten jagged inches along the back of Dean's thigh, a werewolf in Vermont. The painful and paralyzing back spasms that plague Tessa to this day after being thrown into a wall, a poltergeist in San Diego. The bare, bone on bone click that Sam's elbow sometimes makes, an angry spirit outside of Dallas.

He knew their pasts and they weren't pretty or easy or devoid of tears and blood. In fact they were full of them. And it was, entirely, he knew, his fault. Even now that his children are adults, fully capable of making their own decisions, heading down their own paths in life, he can't help but chide himself for starting them down this one so many years before.

But how could he not? When he knew, at least to a certain extent, what was to come, what still _is_ to come. How could he not train them and teach them and guide them in the ways that might later lead them to salvation. Because they were, all three, so much more than simply _his children_.

"Dad," he hears, a concerned voice to jolt him from his thoughts. He looks down to see his daughter's ashen face, knitted brows. She looks tired and ill, but more than that, simply confused.

"Yeah, baby?" he says with a half-hearted smile.

"You okay?" she asks, voice so filled with care and concern that it nearly breaks his heart. Because she's the one with a knife wound in her back, a dead fiancé's blood on her hands. And he…hell, he's just busy feeling sorry for himself.

"I'm fine," he responds, soft and deep, eyes falling only for a moment before taking hold of hers, sincerity laced through his gaze. "How 'bout you?"

"I can't stay awake," she mutters before stifling a yawn.

He laughs a bit and says, "Then don't."

"No." She breathes deep, cringing as she does, as the sharp and slicing pain in her chest reminds her of the tube between her ribs. She closes her eyes and does all she can to remain to still for as long as it takes to get her breath back and the zapping throb to stop.

"It's okay to sleep," he says softly, nearly a whisper, as he leans down into her. His thumb has stilled and his hand's tightened on hers, fingers laced taughtly together as she works through the pain, works to _hide_ the pain.

"No," she says again, stronger now, shaking her head defiantly.

And John knows better than to think it's something as simple as fear. Because Tessa's too analytical to be scared of something like dreams. Even when she was little, after the initial scream or sob of terror upon waking, she'd rather sit up and try to analyze her nightmares than either give into them or forcibly forget about them. That's just who she is, always looking for answers to everything, ways to explain all the unexplainable, so she might then know the unknowable. To keep fear at bay. Because, really, what could be more frightening than the unknown?

So no, it wasn't anything as simple as that, nothing he could easily fix with an, "I'm here, don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you." Because she already knew that anyway, and would only look at him like he was crazy if he said it. So he wouldn't.

Instead he opts for, "Why not?" And when she turns her bloodshot eyes to him he can see her hesitation, to just say the words. So he says again, in that fatherly order of a way he has, "Why not?"

Her eyes dim and shift, dropping to his chest but looking at, or for, something else entirely. Something that isn't there at all. Something that, he's fairly certain, she sees every time her eyes fall shut. "I found a dress," she says quietly, so soft he barely hears. "I didn't even want a wedding. Who would we invite anyway?" Her voice drifts into a tone that matches the far-off quality of her eyes, especially when she utters, "It's a beautiful dress."

"Yeah?" is all he can think to say. Because what else could he do? What else could he say, when his daughter begins to talk about the wedding she'll never have?

"I bought it," she says, glancing up at John, making glassy eye contact. "It just…fit."

"I bet it's beautiful," he offers gently. "I bet you're beautiful in it."

She nods her head in agreement and says simply, defeatedly, "Hope I can get my money back now."

"Maybe you should hold onto it," he begins, hand coming to rest in her hair, fingers sweeping the newly shorn strands back and down off her forehead, "in case you need it later."

She looks at him stonily, a fiery stubbornness he's only ever seen in his twins' eyes, and perhaps his own should he ever happen by a mirror at the right time. "I don't know what happened," she says in sharp and measured tones. "I don't know why, when, or how. But I know that Ben loved me. And I loved him. I _love_ him."

He nods his head, understanding all too well, but still hoping that maybe… "You never know, Kiddo." Because the thought of his children spending their lives longing for ghosts, be it Sam's Jess or Tessa's Ben, like he's done, pining away for long gone Mary, is too much to bear.

She doesn't respond, and he's glad, knowing from the look on her face that any response she would have voiced surely would have been laced with anger and profanity. He drops his head and with it, his gaze, and doesn't say a word, until the air is too thick not to.

Fingers still playing in her hair he asks suddenly, only now realizing why this act seemed so strange and different, "What happened to your hair?" Because it hadn't been this short since…well, ever. Unless you count when she was a baby, waves just starting to come in, thick and tangled. But, admittedly, he remembers little from those days.

She sighs softly, taking care not to emit any sort of sharp breath that might bring back that awful stabbing pain. "Dean cut it off," she says with the voice of a sulking four-year-old.

"Dean cut it off?" he asks, mind quickly flitting through the images of all the horrible things his kids had done to one another in the past. Another prank war, he assumes. And it's his turn to sigh, long and defeated, just like he did every time one of them would run to him after being on the receiving end of some such joke.

She laughs, only briefly before gasping a bit and letting out a long drawn out, "Owww," smile still playing on her face. Because she recognizes his sigh and knows what he's thinking. And she's tempted to let him think it, let Dean get in trouble, which surely he would. And even the idea of it makes her laugh.

"Careful," John says, crooked smile on his lips as well. He knew, maybe better than anyone, in their family at least, that the worst thing you could do with a chest injury of any kind, the most awful and painful and terrible thing, was to laugh.

She takes a moment to compose herself, find her voice, smile slipping inadvertently from her lips as she does so. "It got stuck in a door, my ponytail. He had to cut it so we could get out of the house. Stupid poltergeist."

"I see," he says nodding, only slightly amused, because, really, he's always loved her hair. His little girl, always dressed in worn hand me downs or bargain bin threads, nothing trendy or particularly girly. Not until she was old enough to makes her own money anyway, buy her own stuff. There were times, when the kids were young, that the only way anyone could tell she was a girl was her long and lovely hair.

"I like it," he says, voice a little too high. His fingers pinch a chink and pull it taught so he can get a better look at just how short it is. Terrible.

"Liar," she says.

And he laughs, because of course it's a lie.

He can remember running his fingers through that hair, from her scalp down to her back, on countless days and nights. If she was sick or hurt, or just couldn't sleep. If she was upset because the boys wouldn't let her play with them and their friends, because she was a girl. If he'd just gotten back from a long and arduous hunt, finding Dean asleep on the couch or upright in a chair, having nodded off despite trying to keep watch. The two younger children likely curled together somewhere, the one double bed they could afford, or perhaps on the floor by Dean's feet.

He'd put them all to bed, eldest son insisting on getting up and going himself, movements still weighted with sleep. Sam, nothing but dead weight, still gone to the world even after being tucked in. And Tessa, always awake, but pretending not to be, letting John carry her off, pull the covers up close to her chin, straighten and stroke her long locks, never moving.

Dean used to brush her hair, when she was small and refused to do it herself, claiming she couldn't even remember how. And John would get too frustrated, too violent with the tangles that plagued her dark waves. Only Dean would take the time, surprising him with his patience and tenderness. He'd comb it out gently, making Tessa count the strokes, helping her learn her numbers as they went. And then later, when she was older and saw how the other girls at school would wear their hair up and out of the way, making it easier for play. Then, his ten-year-old son taught himself how to braid.

Even Sam seemed to love her hair, absently playing with it, curling it between his fingers, as they drove on and on, sandwiched together in the back, so often falling asleep on each other's shoulders.

If it was the only truly, obvious piece of femininity that Tessa possessed, then it was also the only piece the family had as a whole. For a man who longed for his wife, and two boys who craved a mother, that one beautiful head of hair was the only reminder that they did carry some feminine comfort with them.

Stupid, but true. It's only hair, but running his fingers though it now, barely able to curl a chunk around his knuckle as he had so many times before, John can't help but feel as though another part of his history has fallen away.

It's what happens when children grow.

And find only heartache.

"Dad," she says again, silent and confused like before. He looks down at her and waits. "No matter what. I have to know, no matter what."

And he feels his heart still, nearly stop all together. Because he might not know everything, about what's happened, or what _will_ happen. But he knows enough. He knows enough to understand that the words, _no matter what_ may just be the most dangerous and frightening ones in the English language.

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**Love reviews...go on then...make me smile!**


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Author's Note: Dude, it's been forever, I know! And this chapter is kind of short and doesn't offer a whole lot...but, hey, it's an update, and more's to come! Really, I promise! **

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"You know, we can do this on our own," he says gently, watching as she flits by once more, piling additional clothes into her duffel.

"No you can't."

Sam shakes his head and rises from the corner of the bed. "Tess," he breathes out, fingers wrapping around her arm, twisting her around to face him. "We can do this, really. You don't have to be here." He looks over her shoulder at Dean, face dark and drawn as he leans against the doorjamb.

He's been quiet since they arrived, barely uttering a word in the last hour. Barely even moving, just standing back as Tessa frantically collected her personal belongings and Sam worked to fit them all into the few bags and boxes they'd brought.

"You wouldn't know what I need, Sam," she says simply, shaking off his big paw. "And besides, I don't want you touching my underwear."

He laughs a bit but knows better than to let her attempt at humor truly comfort him. Because she uses it as a defense mechanism almost as much as Dean. And right now she just has too much to defend herself against.

She zips the duffel shut and leaves the bedroom, squeezes past Dean, all the while carefully avoiding glancing at anything that was _his_. Her brothers follow, watch as she stops and stares at the immense bookshelves along the living room wall, presumably deciding which of many books to bring along.

"You know," Sam starts, sensing what she's thinking, "we can always just pack these up and put them into storage or something."

"No," she responds, resolve wavering with the despair in her voice. "No, I don't really need them." And it was true, most of them she had nearly memorized, knew so well she had no need to consult them. Keeping them was more of a comfort thing, an odd sort of security blanket. Most everyone who'd ever known Tessa Winchester would find it difficult to picture her without a book by her side.

"You sure?"

"I have to let go sometime," she says, so quiet and mumbled that Sam wonders if it was even meant for his ears.

She begins pulling titles off the shelf, tossing them into yet another box, stopping only when reaching for one, not even that high. But the action pulls at her stitches and causes her breath to stall, pain rippling through her chest and back. Sam notices and jumps up to grab the book she was reaching for, knowing full well that if he doesn't she'll only keep trying for it until she succeeds.

"You should still be in the hospital," Dean rumbles behind them, the first full sentence he's uttered in almost an hour.

"Please," she says, turning to him. "Who are you to tell me not to go AMA?" But he's not looking at her when she speaks. Instead his eyes are cast downward, boring into the bloodstained carpet. She looks away, too eager to ignore what he's obviously thinking about, and says with gentle resolution, "I'm fine."

All three siblings are silent for the rest of the time spent in the little bungalow. No one asks why certain items are chosen to be kept and others not. No one discusses what will be done with all that's left behind, with the things that belonged to Ben. No one acknowledges the all too apparent elephant in the room.

Sam and Dean carry everything out, two boxes and two bags, all that she'd accumulated over the last year of being _mostly_ settled. And no one says a word when they pull away from the little house, Tessa never looking back.

000000000000000000000000000000

They'd been doing this sort of thing long enough to know how to handle situations like this. Granted they tended not to be quite so personal, but even so, a hunt was a hunt. So they all slipped rather seamlessly into their typical routine.

Tessa consulting her books, notes, previously gathered research. Sam hitting the Internet, searching for anything new or different, or in any way similar. John making calls to various contacts, working his way through the grapevine, eager to discover new information, careful to ensure that none of theirs got out. And Dean pouting restlessly, relying on the others to do their _research thing_.

It wasn't long before the anxious fervor gave way to a clumsy ennui.

"Maybe we're thinking too much about this," Sam says with a sigh. "Maybe it's more…simple than all this."

"What do you mean?" Tessa asks through a yawn, which quickly makes her wince.

From the other side of the room John tosses her a pill bottle, pain meds she'd been adamant about not taking. He glares at her fiercely, an unspoken order, and she pops open the pills, swallows one dry. When a smart-ass smile spreads over her face, he shakes his head, both annoyed and amused, before saying, "When you hear hoof beats, think horses, not zebras."

"What?" she hisses, brow furrowed.

"What he's saying," Dean chimes in, "is that we're looking for something that isn't there because we don't want to see what's right in front of our eyes." His voice is gentle, but the words cut through her all the same. Because she knows what he means, what he's thinking.

"No," Sam interrupts, eager to keep Dean from saying something stupid. "No, we're just saying that there could be a relatively simple explanation."

"Let's not forget," John begins, taking a seat on the bed next to his daughter, "you and Ben performed a lot of exorcisms, turned it almost into a bit of specialty. That alone makes you two targets for any sort of demonic activity."

She shakes her head. "He wasn't possessed. I mean he didn't show any signs of possession, other that just not being himself."

Dean lets out a sardonic snort, earning him a glare from everyone in the room.

"I don't think he was either," Sam says. "But, you're right, he was clearly not himself."

"And he'd been talking about hearing them again, the demons," John goes on. "We don't know what they might have been telling him, doing to him. We don't know what kind of influence they may have had over him that they couldn't hold over us."

"So, what," Dean tries. "You think he was like Jedi mind-fucked or something? Because I gotta tell ya, that sounds like zebras to me."

"Would you stop it already," Tessa huffs, more exhausted than angry. "I get it. We all get it. You didn't like him. You didn't trust him."

"I'm just saying – "

"No, you're not. You're not _saying_ anything, Dean. I _know_ him. Do you get that? I _know_ him."

"Wrong," he spits out, suddenly willing to get in her face. "You _knew_ him. You don't know him anymore, because he's dead. And he's dead because you killed him, because you had no choice, because he stabbed you in the fucking chest!"

The loud smack of skin on skin startles everyone in the room, including Dean and Tessa. Because while tiffs with her brothers were nothing new, and occasionally these devolved into full on physical fights, she had never actually _slapped_ anyone before.

A punch was one thing, a way to say _knock it off_ or _leave me alone_. A kick, landed in the right place could do the same. But am open-handed hit was much more personal that that. A slap rarely left a bruise, but the sting lasted indefinitely.

Both siblings stood stunned, John's voice sounding over the din, a firm and rough, "Enough," followed quickly by the ringing of his cell.

No words were spoken as they turned to move for their separate corners. No apologetic glance was shared. Because each _knew_ they were right, the other wrong.

John leaves the room to answer his phone, nothing but his deep rumble discernable from the other side of the heavy door. The three siblings sit in tense silence, waiting.

When their father finally enters once more he simply declares, "We're going to see Bobby," before moving to pack everything up.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Oh yeah, sure, I own the Winchesters. I keep them in my closet. But instead of taking them out and playing with them, I'm sitting here typing. Right, sure thing.

**Author's Note: Beware, new characters are about to be introduced. I don't know why I felt the need to warn you of that, but there you have it. As per usual, reviews are greatly, greatly, greatly, greatly appreciated. Greatly. **

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A ten-hour drive. It takes ten hours, give or take, to make it to Bobby's. That's ten hours of cramped legs, cricked necks, and silent tongues. Because no one was speaking. Even after casually choosing their separate ways, Tessa with John, Dean with Sam, tension permeated the air. 

The mood in the truck was more exhausted than tense, both father and daughter having had little sleep, and at least of one of them was slipped pain pills when not looking, adding to the grogginess. But even if Tessa hadn't been dozing next to him, well, John was a quiet man regardless. And his daughter was the same. Unless of course, something truly sparked their interest, either Winchester being known to prattle on endlessly about things such as the media-propagated myths regarding poltergeist or the true derivation of Bigfoot, just as an example.

But typically, if nothing needed to be said among the two, or even something did but neither felt up to voicing it, silence prevailed. And for them, that was just fine.

Sam and Dean, on the other hand, not exactly the strong silent types they so often pretended to be. Sam, ever the _let's clear the air, get things out in the open_ kind of guy. Dean, never opposed to letting his opinion be heard, _making_ it heard. Their car ride was a bit more tense, awkward silence bearing down on them both in a stranglehold, until, "What is your problem?" finally shoots out Sam's mouth.

Dean doesn't so much as take his eyes off the road when he answers, ever-present scowl still on his face, "Don't know what you're talking about."

_Yeah right_, Sam thinks, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You know, I get that you didn't like him, never did, but, come on man," he says, pent up anger filling his words.

"Come on what?" he responds casually.

"He's dead, Dean."

"So I've heard."

Sam turns in his seat, rage and annoyance crinkling his brow, slurring his words. "You didn't even know him. And you had no reason not to like him, but let's just say that you did. Don't you think whatever beef you had should die along with him? I mean, for Tessa's sake."

And that's when he finally looks Sam's way, surprise and fury outlining his features. "For Tessa's sake?" he spits, unbelieving quality to his voice.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replies with more than a hint of smart-ass. "You don't think this is tough enough on her without you… trampling all over the memory of her fiancé. The guy she loved, guy you never even knew."

"I knew enough, Sam," he says sharply before retraining his eyes on the road.

It only takes a moment for Sam to realize what he means, understand what's really going on, why Dean hated Ben so much. "You knew he was a freak," he says, slow and deep.

He doesn't respond, doesn't need to. The tightening of his fingers around the steering wheel, the click and shift of his jaw, say it all.

"He was a freak, a…a what? Supernatural…_thing_. Right? Something you'd hunt, not make friends with. Not make a part of your family," he finishes with a hiss. "That's it, isn't it?"

He considers remaining quiet. Considers even lying his ass off. But before he gets a chance to stall his words, or craft them into falsehoods, he hears, "Yeah," escape from his lips in a determined whisper.

"Yeah?" Sam parrots, looking for an explanation more than mere confirmation. When he receives neither he asks what's been on his mind all along, since long before this conversation ever even started. "What about me?"

"What?" Dean asks, seemingly annoyed, pretending not to understand despite knowing exactly what his brother means. "What about you?"

"I'm a freak too, right?" he says, anger boiling over. "You hate me?"

"No," he answers, hard and fast, even though, just for asking that question, yeah, he hates him a little.

"You don't think maybe I shouldn't be part of _your _family? Shouldn't be allowed around the people _you_ love?"

"Sam," he warns.

"Shouldn't be allowed to _love_ the people you love?"

"Would you stop?" he says in a huff. "Jesus, that's not what I meant."

"Bullshit."

"Hey, news flash, Sammy Boy, you're part of this family whether you like it or not."

"You mean whether _you_ like it or not," he replies scathingly, sinking into his seat with a pout.

"You're my brother," Dean voices, words heady with pain and regret. Because he would never hurt Sam, never make him purposefully feel like less a part of the family. Like less than human. He flits his eyes over to his brother. "Sammy?" just to make sure he heard, knows.

"Yeah," comes in a near silent mumble, a weak confirmation. "But he was _my_ friend."

"I know," he says simply.

"He helped us, all of us."

"I know."

"He was…a good guy."

And with a deep sigh, Dean repeats, "I know."

"Then why," Sam starts, confusion stunting his thoughts. "Why?"

"Because you don't take work home with you. Recipe for disaster."

A small, incredulous laugh escapes him as he says, "What? What home? You're talking about Tessa right? She's as bad as Dad. As bad as _you_. There is no home. Only work."

"That's the point, Sam," he says, a certain finality to his voice, all the explanation he's willing to give.

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By the time Sam and Dean arrive at Bobby's they're greeted by two familiar cars out front. John's truck comes as no surprise, his uncanny ability for beating others to the finish line a well-known characteristic to his sons. The other, though, an old beat up Bronco, neither had seen in years.

"Tate," Dean mumbles under his breath as they move towards the door.

Sam, face rife with confusion, does a double take before saying, seemingly to no one in particular, "I thought he was dead." Dean turns, stares unbelievingly at his brother. "What?" Sam asks innocently. "You're the one who told me he fell off a bridge in Maine."

"Pushed, actually," he corrects, recollecting the incident. Run of the mill haunted roadway, angry spirit nudging the young man over the guardrail. No big deal. "And I didn't say he _died_."

"I just assumed. I mean I never saw him again. No one ever mentions him." He picks up his pace, lengthening his stride just enough to close in on the door a step ahead of Dean.

"Yeah, well," Dean mutters absently just before knocking. "He's not."

"Uh, yeah, I can see that," he says softly, taking notice of the young man approaching.

"Hey," he greets, opening the door wide, smile cast first at Sam then Dean. "Long time no see." He glances at Sam once more, the young man he hadn't seen in more than five years, and says, "Heard you went away. Thought you were gonna be a lawyer or something."

Moving through the door and on into the cramped main room where everyone sits, he says, "I thought you were dead."

And just like the Tate he remembers – the one who fed him worms when he was little, telling him they had magical powers, the guy who stole Bobby's car and took a 14-year-old Dean off to his first strip club, paying no heed to the fact that he too was too young to get in – he throws back his head and laughs in devil may care fashion. "You'd be surprised how many people tell me that," he chuckles.

Bobby clears his throat from the corner, nods at both Sam and Dean before saying in his typically gruff way, "Excuse my boy, he's a jackass," causing Tate's smile to fade.

"Thanks Dad," he responds, moving past Sam.

"But," Bobby goes on, as everyone sits and settles, "He's gonna help us out a bit here."

"So you know what happened?" Dean asks, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with either Tessa or his father.

"Yep. And I was just saying how sorry I am about it. About Ben. He was a real good guy."

"Yeah," Dean mutters, "I've been hearing that."

"Good worker too. The both of you," he says, glancing at Tess, "made a good team."

She clears her throat and says, by means of explanation, "Bobby helped us out sometimes, gave us jobs."

"Exorcisms?" Sam asks.

She nods.

"And a hell of a lot, pardon the pun, have been needed lately," Bobby breaks in once more. "Don't know if you all are aware or not, but some bad shit's going down."

Dean lets out an indignant snort. "Yeah, we've noticed."

"I mean for a while now. Possessions are up, through the roof. There're more reports of demonic activity, hauntings in and around the places most thought to be pathways. All kinds of stuff."

"There're some theories," Tate interjects, "in some of the circles I've been in…some theories about some kind of war brewing, between Heaven and Hell. And we might just be caught up in the middle of it."

"Wait a minute," Dean says with a slight shake of his head. "What _circles_ have you been in? Last I heard you were concentrating all your efforts on getting laid, not hunting."

Bobby chuckles, having been the one who informed him of his son's previous escapades. "What?" he asks upon receiving a glare from Tate. "At the time you said you were too busy to go after a poltergeist, shacking up with some cocktail waitress."

"She was a showgirl," he corrects snidely. "And I didn't refuse to go, I just did my research first – "

"And decided it was all a bust, not worth checking out," Bobby interrupts.

"Well I was right, wasn't I?"

"Not the point, son. I asked you to do something and – "

Tessa jumps up, immediately cringing at a pain in her side, but not letting that keep her from shouting, "Enough!" and causing the room to fall into silence. "Can we maybe concentrate here?"

"Yeah," Bobby says with a sigh, calming himself. "Let's concentrate." He gets up and heads over to an unkempt desk, begins rifling through dozens of papers. "Last time I heard from Ben was about a month ago. Said he needed some information about the War in Heaven, how the Fallen came to be. Seemed pretty frantic about it too. Ah ha," he exclaims, grabbing hold of a dog-eared sheet and holding it up triumphantly. "He was looking for some text, one I'd never heard of, about the oath of the Grigori." Walking over to Tessa, he holds the paper out to her. "I gave him this guy's name and number. Terrence Tavish, he's a self proclaimed expert in the field."

"He's also filthy rich, dabbles in antiquities," Tate expounds. "And a total ass."

"Yes," Bobby hisses, turning to his son, "But he _is_ an expert." The young man throws his arms up in the air, a dramatic showing of _you win_, and Bobby turns back to Tess. "I don't know if he got a hold of him or not. Never heard back."

Sam, who had been resting quietly against a back wall, taking everything in, pushes himself up and says simply, "Okay. So let's find this Tavish guy."

Heads begin to shake in agreement when suddenly, "No," booms from the corner of the room. A previously silent John stands, looming only for a moment before repeating, "No," and storming out to his truck, leaving a room full of bewildered faces in his wake.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: I'm a bad, bad author...oh how you must hate me for such an utter lack of updates. But look! Here's one! And we're getting much deeper into the story now, almost to the point of action adventure and surprises that, well, you may not like. But I digress, on with the story!

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"Well," he breathes out, brows raised high, "that was awkward."

Tessa charges for the door after her father, simple words tossed over her shoulder, "Shut up, Dean," before leaving the dark and musty house behind.

John turns when he sees her headed his way, throws up a hand to still her, curling all but one finger up so as to issue a harsh point. "Don't start."

"Don't start?" she asks incredulously.

"Tessa," he warns, index finger still pointed at her face.

"Don't start?" she repeats, swatting away his hand as she closes in, anger and pain burning beneath her eyes. "You can't say no," she says in a low whisper, just shy of a sob. "You can't say no to this."

He looks away, eyes straying to the sky above her head. "I can. I did."

"I need to know," she strains. "You said you knew that, understood that."

He shakes his head slowly. "It's too dangerous."

"Why?" she asks simply, causing him to look down, meet her eyes again. "How?" When he doesn't answer, only grunts in response and tries to turn away, she advances on him once more. "What do you know?" she spits, bitter accusation tainting her words. "Who is this guy? What do you know about him?"

"Enough," he answers steadily. "I know enough to know that you can't be getting involved with him, any of you."

"Why not?"

"Because he's dangerous, Tessa! Aren't you listening?!"

He turns his back on her, hopes she'll trust him enough to give it up and walk away. But of course she doesn't, wouldn't be his child if she did. "The last time you said something was too dangerous, you tried to handle it on your own."

He faces her, eyes stern and reproachful. "Not this time."

"The last time you said something was too dangerous, you were really just trying to cover up a mistake _you_ made."

He leans in, levels his eyes with hers and says, deep and quiet, "You better think real hard about what you're saying right now, little girl." Because he'd be damned if he was gonna let her make him feel even more guilty for a burden he'd been breaking under for years. "Real hard." Because he'd be damned if he let himself tell her all he knew about Terrence Tavish when it would only serve to hurt her further.

She falters under her father's glare, doesn't say another word. Instead she turns and leaves, heads back to the house, leaving him yelling after her in misplaced fury.

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John was incensed, that much was clear. He fumed silently the entire time they discussed heading back to LA. He scoffed obnoxiously when, after several long and drawn out phone calls, Tessa informed them that she had a friend who could get them in to see Tavish. And he damn near boiled over, even his ears burning in a bright blush, as they drove all those miles back the way they came.

But there wasn't much he could do about it. He'd been out voted, Tessa saying she'd take care of this herself, _by_ herself if necessary. Sam and Dean quickly hopping on board simply to watch her back. And as for Bobby and Tate, well they just seemed genuinely interested.

So John had no choice when it came to this endeavor, no choice but to keep his family safe, in as much as he could. The only choice he did have, only amount of control he seemed able to wield, was in assigning everyone to a vehicle. All the kids together, because it was just plain safer that way, to have all four in one spot. And because _he_ had no desire to speak to any of those insolent little traitors. Truthfully, he didn't really want to talk to Bobby either, him being in the same boat as the kids, but there wasn't any room left in the Impala and it would just be pointless to have him drive himself.

Having the four young hunters in one car for the first time, well, ever really, was an awkward endeavor to say the least. Tate insisted on riding up front, claiming it came with the territory, being the oldest. Which left Sam, long legs and all, crammed into the back with Tessa.

And since Tess and Dean were still fighting, she insisted on being as far from him as possible, leaving Dean grimacing and swerving every time Sam tried to find a more comfortable position, knobby knees jamming him in the back.

"Ow! Damn it, Sam!" he swore again, finally fed up. "One more time, just one more time…"

"I'm sorry. I can't help it," he whines as he tries to straighten himself up in his seat. "There's no room."

"Really?" Tate inquires from the front as he folds his arms behind his head and reclines back. "Seems pretty roomy up here."

"Ass," Tessa calls out as she shoves him forward.

"Hey!"

"I can't get comfortable," Sam moans once more, trying to fold one leg up beneath him. It doesn't work and when he tries to get back into his previous position his leg flies forward, heavy boot colliding with the back of the seat, and in turn, Dean's kidney.

"Son of a," he cries out, earning a snigger from Tess and a tug on the wheel from Tate as he lets go, swerving across lanes of traffic. "That's it!" He turns around, foot still on the gas, Tate leaning further over and clutching the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car on the road.

"Dean!" Tessa exclaims as he reaches back and smacks Sam, who tries desperately to avoid his brother's blows, despite being barely able to even move.

"Uh, Dean," ekes out from up front, Tate's voice hardly discernable from outside the melee.

A tangle of arms and legs is all that can be seen in the rearview, random snippets of phrases – _I swear to God. Not the hair! I told you. Son. Of. A. Bitch! _– all that can be heard.

"Dean," he tries again, hoping to get his attention, but at the same time entirely amused at the current situation. "Okay then," he says to himself, scooting as far into the driver's seat as he can. Dean feels him move and unconsciously takes the hint, wiggling out of his way so he can take over the driving completely.

It's not until he actually leaps over the seat, really only following his arm, which Sam had twisted up into an awkward hold, that the yelling, name calling, slapping, punching, twisting, kicking sibling free for all stops. Because as soon as he's pulled into the back, flopping heavily onto the seat, he feels his knee connect with his sister's side. And they all hear her scream out in pain.

"Jesus, Tessa," he says, twisting himself around to see her, throwing an elbow into Sam as he does so. "See what you made me do," he spits at his brother.

"You okay?" Sam asks, red and battered face peeking out from beneath Dean's arm.

She doesn't speak, can't speak, and only sits with mouth agape and all color drained from her face.

"Pull over," Dean commands. "Pull over!"

And as soon as the car comes to rest at the side of the road, despite having little to no air left in her lungs, and a white hot pain still searing at her side, Tessa throws open the door and leans out, vomiting into the dirt. No one says a word, the silence a stark rebuffing of their childish antics from moments before.

Dean rubs soft circles between her shoulder blades as she gets some wind back, starts to breathe again. But before he's able to gauge if she's at all better, before he gets the chance to ask her once more if she's okay, Tessa climbs out of the car and hops into the front seat. With still shaking hands, she buckles herself in and looks to Tate, unspoken command in her eyes. Drive.

He peels out before Dean can even pull his door shut, coy smile prickling the edges of his mouth, a satisfied smirk that matches the one on the girl to his right.

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As for the elder two hunters, things were going a bit more civilly. Granted neither one spoke for nearly two hours, but that silence was a civil and respectful one.

"You know you're gonna have to tell me sometime," Bobby finally says, an exasperated huff to his voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit."

"Bobby," he sighs.

"John." He waits for a response but gets none, John never so much as taking his eyes from the road. "Look, I know you're into the whole cowboy thing. You do what you gotta do and you do it alone. I get that, don't exactly respect it, but I get it. Only thing is, John, this ain't about you, and like it or not, you're not the only one in it up to his eyeballs here."

"They don't need to know, not everything."

"Your daughter's fiancé is dead. He tried to kill her, and your son, and I got a feeling it was for a pretty wild reason."

"You could say that."

"Well, damn it, John, if you know something…hell we're all involved now, me and my boy too."

He sighs heavily and glances at Bobby, eyes laden with fatigue and grief. When he speaks he sounds almost as defeated as he looks, and Bobby can't help but be taken aback by that, seldom seeing his friend be anything less than solid. "Tavish isn't just an expert. He's not just some guy who wanted to learn all he could about Demons and Watchers. He is one."

Bobby squints in confusion. "Is one what?"

"He's a Watcher, Grigori. And if he's doing what I think he is, if he so much as spoke with Ben, then he's breaking a pretty sacred oath."

"What kind of oath?"

John shifts in his seat, a clear sign that he doesn't want to go on. But he does so none the less. "Neutrality, for lack of a better term. The Grigori are supposed to keep an eye on things here on earth, watch over humanity. But they're not supposed to get involved. Last time that happened…well, it resulted in a fair amount of death and pillaging."

"At the hands of the Nephilim," Bobby says simply. "I know the legends, John. But it's biblical lore, not…reality."

"No, Bobby," he says, heavy solemn tone to his voice. "It's real. Grigori and all the other Fallen ones are real. Tavish is real. And the war he plans to let loose on this earth, is real."

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**I really am gonna try to update more frequently, honestly. Maybe some more feedback and encouragement would help though...HINT, HINT, HINT.**


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Told ya I'd try to update more! This is for all of you who just can't take the tension between Dean and Tessa anymore...read on!

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They didn't arrive until late, nearly two in the morning, a time that made it a bit difficult to find an open hotel, let alone one with enough rooms to accommodate them all. Luckily, everyone was exhausted enough to give in easily when John gave out the room assignments: Winchesters in 101, Singers in 104. No argument.

The Singers lucked out. Bobby had had enough of John and his tense mood about two hours into their ride. And Tate, while he did get a kick out of driving the Impala, because really he'd _always_ wanted to take that beauty for a spin, nothing was worth the constant sibling bickering and endless whining. Needless to say, those two managed to fall into a restful sleep the minute their heads hit the pillows.

As for the others, well…

"Dad, c'mon, you can't just say no to something and not tell us why," begins the conversation, Sam not being able to keep his mouth shut any longer than five minutes after entering the room with his family. "I mean, if this guy's dangerous…"

"He is," John counters sharply in that end-of-discussion way of his.

"So you've heard of him?" he asks. "You know him?"

No response.

"Dad?"

Again, John remains quiet, his only movements the simple removal of his shoes and socks, and a .22 from his duffel that he places under the pillow, a basic nighttime ritual. It's clear that he doesn't want to talk, doesn't intend to, but Sam continues to push regardless. "Is he dangerous like a criminal? Or like some sort of…supernatural meddler? Or is he some kind of hunter?"

"I've never heard of him," Dean interjects, as though that fact should supply ample invalidation.

"Then what?" Sam asks, fatigue weighing his voice as he scrubs at his eyes with tight fists. "Dad, we're going to go see this guy tomorrow. If there's something we should know about him, don't you think…"

"He's a demon," he blurts out in measured tone, eyes closed as he reclines in the bed.

Dean's eyes open as wide as they can through the strain of no sleep when he says, "A what now?" And suddenly all eyes are on him as though he'd said the stupidest thing in the world.

"He's an antiques dealer." Tessa's voice is quiet, almost unheard, certainly unreadable, from the corner where she sits.

John doesn't move, doesn't rise, but his lids flutter lazily open as he says, "Yeah, well…" followed by a dramatic sigh. "He's one of the Fallen, not really a demon per se, but close enough."

Sam cocks his head to one side and squints in confusion. "The Fallen as in _the _Fallen? Like from thousands of years ago?"

"How d'ya think he manages to find all those _antiques_?"

"So that makes him a bad guy," Dean mutters, almost a question.

"It makes him someone with not a lot to lose. And a shit load of friends in…low places."

"So what does this mean?" Sam poses delicately. "I mean, as far as going out there tomorrow, meeting with him…"

"He's an antiques dealer," comes from the corner yet again, this time a bit louder, bit more terse. "He's a business man."

"Uh, yeah," Dean offers bitterly, "and what kind of business is that exactly? 'Cause I'm pretty sure it ain't our kind."

She glances over at him, still and calm, while he fumes, the mere idea of speaking to a near demon seemingly too much to handle for him. "He knows something. Or he might," she says plainly. "And I want to know what that is."

"At what cost?"

"Dean," John warns, rising to a sitting position, facing his children for the first time all day. "You're sister's right, much as I want to deny it, much as I don't want to get involved with someone like him, she's right. He's a businessman, and he wouldn't have made it this far without being found out if he didn't understand how to treat people. Just meeting him shouldn't be a problem."

"But," he goes on, a hint of petulance to his voice, "you're the one who said it was too dangerous."

"Because I'd really rather he not know us, or anything about us, just in case."

Sam narrows his eyes at his father. "In case of what?"

"In case…look, he's powerful, because of his position, he's got a lot of pull…" He struggles to find the right words, shakes his head absently, lets out a deep breath. "This isn't exactly laying low. If something does happen, Heaven and Hell colliding on Earth kind of something…well, I'd rather my family not be involved." He leans back again, turns to face the door, trains his eyes on the thick line of salt at its base, checks the window for the same. "Seems like we're in it no matter what I want," he mumbles, almost to himself.

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John hasn't slept in over twenty years, not really, not wholly. He's always on guard, always ready with a finger on the trigger even while resting his eyes. Especially with his children in the room, all three positioned behind him, away from the door, him being a barricade should something pop in.

And they all know this, know that their father could always hear, even if not fully comprehending, every word spoken after lights out, every breath taken and move made in the dark. Which is how certain activities had been perfected. Like reading in the pitch black of night so that he wouldn't get angry at them for perusing books when they should be sleeping, or passing notes when they shouldn't be talking. Sam was the best at that, even managing to perfect the most silent and unobtrusive page turning technique known to man.

And there was always finding a way to simply _move_ in the middle of the night, whether to check on someone or something, or merely go and take a piss. Dean was the master of that. For a man of his size and strength, he could move as delicately as a ballerina, nearly gliding over the floor as opposed to walking on it, when rising in the dark.

Which is exactly what he does now in this musty old motel room, moving seamlessly over to his open bag, digging quickly and quietly through, trained eyes and fingertips finding the tiny parcel with no trouble what so ever. His stride is just as quick and restrained as it always had been in the dark, as she'd always remembered it to be, when he approaches her.

She doesn't say a word, talking prohibited at a time like this. The three of them have other ways to communicate, ways that wouldn't give them away to any sort of danger lurking in the shadows. Ways that simply wouldn't wake their father, earning them a stern warning about not being on their toes come the morning.

Normally, getting in the face of a Winchester at four a.m. would be a dangerous if not down right lethal endeavor, all of them being on edge enough to wake with a defensive move before even really coming to. But Tessa was already awake, dull pain in her side and a more distant ache in her heart precluding her from sleep.

And Dean knew that. Because no matter how quietly she cried – through the years she had managed to perfect that steady stream of silent tears (being the only girl in a family full of men while moving through puberty will do that to a person) – he always knew when his siblings were in pain. Like when Sam dreamt about Jess in the days and weeks following her death, and Dean never said a word during the night, never woke him from the tossing and turning, or offered him sweet assurances when he woke in tears and cold sweat. Because Sam would only deny that anything was wrong, would try to deny everything about the dreams, and the memories.

But that didn't mean that Dean didn't know, didn't mean that he didn't go many sleepless nights, lying in bed across the way from his brother as he struggled with his conscience and his grief.

Just as he knew Tessa was doing right now.

She looks at him through tear-filled eyes as he kneels down in front her, beside the bed, and she's careful not to move, not wanting to wake Sam who slumbers next to her. But she does manage to give him a stern look complete with a dramatic roll of the eyes. _Leave me alone, I'm fine, God,_ it clearly says.

And he responds with an insolent eye roll of his own. _Yeah right._

She raises one eyebrow, swiveling her head a bit into the pillow. _What? What do you want?_

He looks down, sadly almost, perhaps embarrassed. When his eyes meet hers again they've gone a bit hazy, green irises soaking up enough moonlight to allow her to see them more clearly, see what is in them more clearly. Shame. And regret. And fear.

And because no words are needed between them, she knows exactly what this means. He's sorry for what he said, about Ben. He's sorry that it caused her pain, that it only made things worse. But he's not sorry for implying that he may have been bad news, because in doing so he was only trying to look out for her. Because he was terrified to lose her.

Everything he'd said about Ben was just a reaction to that. This much she knows because, buried back deep, as though he's trying to keep it hidden, there's a look in his eyes she's seen a hundred times before: guilt.

It wasn't his fault, not any of it. But it's his job to protect Sam and Tess, always has been, always will be. No matter what. No matter if he's there or not, if he's actually able to _do_ anything or not. It's his job, and that night he failed.

He blamed Sam for not intervening sooner, for knowing something was going on and not doing anything about it. He blamed Tessa for even being there in the first place, not listening to him when he _decided_ that Ben wasn't good enough for her, for whatever reason. And, yeah, he blamed Ben, because he had been the one wielding the knife.

But all along, he knew. He knew that laying blame like that was just an easy way out of his own guilt. He knew that if he hurt his sister's feelings, made her angry enough to lash out, at least when he'd look at her he'd see something other than the little kid he couldn't keep safe, the little sister he almost lost.

And he knew, whether he would ever admit it in words or not, that Ben never would have harmed a hair on Tessa's head, not without being pushed to an extreme, not without a fight. He had loved her, Dean could see that in his eyes, in his mere demeanor, during every meeting they'd ever had. And while he never really trusted Ben, because _baggage_ doesn't begin to cover what he was carrying around, he never actually thought him capable of hurting Tess either.

Which is why he pocketed the ring, grabbed it off the dresser after seeing Tessa tentatively remove it.

She had stood there in her bedroom, assuming she was alone, for nearly five minutes. Stood and simply _stared_ at the sparkling diamond, the polished gold. And he watched, saw, even from behind, how much she wanted to pick it back up, place it once more on her finger.

But too much had happened, too much had changed, and after several minutes of debating, she seemed to have made up her mind, turning quickly and gliding out of the room, leaving the ring among other odds and ends she had no desire to pack up and take with her.

Only he knew better.

She gazes at her brother for a moment, studies his face in the moonlight, the worried creases she doesn't remember being there even months ago. The thick bags under his eyes that could be from lack of sleep, or an abundance of unshed tears.

Knowing what he's feeling now, what he's _saying_, here in the dark where only she can _hear_, Tessa reaches out her hand to his shoulder and gives a tight squeeze. _It's okay. I understand._

But before she can pull away, he takes her hand in his, unfolds her long, lean fingers, and drops that ring in the center of her palm, squeezing her hand shut around it.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Author's Note: Blame my unabashed obsession with Future's So Bright... But I really do want to finish this now, so I'm gonna write like mad to do so. Because even _I_ want to know what's gonna happen, and I certainly don't want to be left hanging, nor, I'm sure, do any of you. So here's the next installment, only a few months overdue.**

* * *

Charles Dunn had been the biggest pain in her ass for nearly four years now, ever since being introduced by a mutual friend and business associate. He was a good two inches shorter than her, fifty pounds heavier, and nearly twenty years older, yet none of that seemed to matter to him, never giving off any sort of caution signals that maybe they weren't really a match made in heaven. He'd met Ben before on several occasions, each time ignoring her unabashed attempts to make him see that she was taken – PDAs that had never been her thing suddenly oozing from her desperately. He was a misogynist, a dork of the highest order – and that should mean something coming from a woman who reads Latin and ancient Greek for fun – and he was sadly, utterly clueless.

But he was a handy fellow to have around in a time of crisis, always at the ready with any sort of rare antique or ancient ceremonial something-or-other. He'd _borrowed_ things from both the museum and his own personal collection, and _lent_ them to her more times than she could count. And while it was always implied that if he scratched her back she'd scratch his, he really was too good of a guy to ever force the issue, continuing to offer favors that he must have somehow known would result in nothing.

Today was no different, setting up a meeting with one of his more prestigious clients, allowing it to take place in his personal office at the museum, respectfully ducking out to give them privacy as per her request. And all without ever even asking what it was about. The only price she had to pay this time was a timid hug – which she managed to shrug out of, feigning pain – and a terribly awkward, "I'm so sorry," followed by a seemingly inappropriate, "I always knew you'd be better off with me."

"Yeah, Charles," she'd responded blithely. "I guess you're right."

But no matter. Charles Dunn could say whatever he pleased, since he'd helped set this all up, allowed them to meet with the _man_ whom they all hoped held the key to Ben's mysterious actions.

All six of them came along, no one wanting to be left behind, and while this came as a bit of a surprise to Charles – who used the opportunity to suck up to Tessa's father and brothers – Terrence Tavish seems quite at ease, almost as though he'd been expecting them all along.

"Hello," he offers graciously, taking hold of Tessa's hand first as Dunn introduces them. It's hard not to smile, his own grin spreading so wide and sincere across his face. She's had experience with more demons than she can count, and some were, _are_, as seemingly sweet as can be, charming as all get out, so she's not entirely suckered in by his friendly countenance, his welcoming demeanor. None of them are.

"You know why we're here," she says as soon as Dunn leaves the room. It's a statement more than anything, but one that still requires his response.

"Yes," he says with a smile and an accent that none of them can quite place. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat on the leather couch, long arms spreading across its back in a gesture only a confident man who believes he owns the room can make. "Do you?"

"We know what you are," Dean hums deeply from the corner.

But while this little revelation makes his father roll his eyes in a gesture caught somewhere between anger and annoyance, Terrence Tavish only laughs, light, airy, unimpressed chuckles. He leans forward, eyes sparkling towards the seething man in back. "And _I _know what _you_ are," he says in singsong.

"Okay," John interrupts, "you know, we know…why don't you just tell us what we came here to find out."

If he's taken aback by the man's angry and bitter tone, it doesn't show. Tavish tilts his head questioningly at John before slowly moving his gaze back to Tessa. "Your boyfriend, right?" he asks in a steady even tone. "Charles said he lost his mind, tried to kill you." He looks her up and down and in a way that makes the lot of them fairly uneasy, sending Sam even closer to her side. "You look good for almost being killed," he says with a lilt.

"Thanks," she deadpans in response.

He leans back again, flicks a careless hand in her direction. "Then again, the Winchesters always were quick to heal," he says absently.

Before Dean can get out the hostile question – _What do you know about our family?_ – John's hand flies up to his son's chest, halting him mid stride, sending him back a few steps to the wall. "Did he come to see you?" he asks, once certain that his son won't interfere.

"Yes," he says after a deep and telling breath.

"And what did you two talk about?" he asks, question actually a thinly veiled command.

"Nothing, really," he responds, unfazed. "I could see he was in distress, but when he introduced himself it was in the middle of a benefit the museum was holding. I was too busy to speak with him, gave him my card, but I never heard from him."

"What…what do you mean he was in distress?" Tessa asks, moving forward and taking a seat on the couch's armrest.

He looks up at her with an expression of pity. "You knew him well," he says, low, just for her.

She nods, "Better than anyone."

He too nods, looks away for a moment in silent contemplation, as though deciding just what he should tell this sad girl before him. "I could sense that he was in what I call_ divine turmoil_," he says finally. "Even without knowing him, without speaking to him for more than a moment, I could tell." He smiles again, warm and consoling. "I can always tell."

It's Sam who speaks next, making the divide among them quickly apparent – Sam and Tessa wanting nothing more than to hear what this man knows, all the others in the room wanting only to go. "He had a gift," he says, unsure why, other than the stinging knowledge that Tavish probably already knows far more than what he's now telling him anyhow. "He could communicate with…"

"Demons," Tavish finishes quickly for him. "And others. He had a gift for hearing what other humans can't. We call it celestial noise, for lack of a better term."

"Lately, he'd been hearing a lot," Sam admits almost guiltily.

He takes a moment before responding, and when he does his words are slow and measured. "What he heard, it wasn't meant for him. It's unfortunate, really." He stops, furrows his brow in thought. "How should I explain this," he says, almost to himself, before, "He heard what traveled over certain lines. And lately those circuits have been jammed with too much noise."

"I don't understand," Tessa says, a hopeless quality to her voice and face as she turns to look around the room, see if anyone else gets what he's saying.

"He was human," Tavish tries to explain. "He could only handle so much otherworldly information. It's true of all of you. You're only built to withstand so much. It drove him mad."

Dean scoffs loudly from behind the others, takes a step forward before saying, "He didn't just go crazy. You think we're stupid?" Earning him a pair of stunned stares from his younger siblings, both of whom would have thought him eager and ready to believe this explanation.

"Could be that someone, _something_, as I'm sure you'd say, told him to kill your sister," he says simply. "But he likely wouldn't have listened had it not been for all of the distortion, all the constant sounds, that only he could hear."

"But why would someone tell him to kill her in the first place?" Sam asks, nothing if not genuinely interested.

Tavish almost laughs, lets out a slight snicker when he says, "Don't you know, they want you all dead?" No response comes, only confused and frightened looks being exchanged throughout the room. So he goes on, "You're meddlers, all of you. You know too much, and that is a very dangerous thing."

"Who is it, exactly, who thinks so?" John asks tensely.

"Everyone."

The room is engulfed in silence for one long moment, Winchesters and Singers alike trying to work their way through what's been said. But Tavish can see, can sense, that they simply don't know, don't understand enough to be able to work out all the kinks. He considers leaving well enough alone, sending them on their way with a warning and a prayer, hoping for the best. Because he'd revealed too much before, and look where that got him.

But he swore an oath, and it must be upheld, at all costs. "You said you know _what_ I am," he says, voice suddenly rather grave. "Do you really know? Do you know what the Grigori are?"

He's met predominantly with dumbfounded looks, only Bobby letting his expertise shine through the shock. "Watchers," he says, taking a step forward. "You were dispatched by God to watch after mankind."

He nods, quirks his chin up in _go on_ fashion.

"And then you…mated with mortal women, created the Nephilim, half-breed _things_ that almost destroyed the earth. If the legends are true."

"If," he says, long and drawn. "What is it that they say about history?" he asks, expecting no answer. "It's always written by the winners." Terrence Tavish, all long, lean limbs, decked out in a rich gray suit, sprawled easily along a couch that's not his own, in an office not his own, on a plane of existence, not his own, takes one more deep breath before asking, "Do you know the story of the war in Heaven, how the Fallen came to be?"

This time its Dean who speaks up, before Bobby or anyone else gets a chance. His words are tinged with bitter hatred when he says, "Satan, Lucifer, whatever you want to call him, he led a revolt, challenged God, and lost, miserably."

Tavish _tsk, tsk_'s in response. "You're reciting the teachings of the _winner_."

"Uh, yeah, well, can't say I mind doing that when the winner's _God_," he smarts.

"Who's to say it was?" he asks simply, provoking yet another stunned and confused silence. "The revolt began when Lucifer, and others, refused one of God's edicts – to bow down to mankind. But what is said in that book you humans love so much, Exodus 20:5? _You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the LORD your God am a jealous God._"

"So," Sam begins, brow furrowed, "Lucifer was _loyal_?"

"At one time, yes, more than any other. But he was cast down none the less. And…well, you know how it is, ghost hunter, a soul can only be tied to bitter desolation for so long before…changing. All of them became embittered, enraged. Evil. And they fought back in the manner most offensive to God, by acting out against his favored ones. Call it jealousy, call it misplaced aggression, a vendetta that's lasted for millennia."

"What does this have to do with us?" John asks, always eager to get straight to the point. "Or with any of this?"

"Those are the ones who fell from Heaven and began the revolt. Those are the ones who now reside in Hell, and would do anything to get out, never mind it being a prison of their own making. Those are the ones swearing vengeance yet again, preparing for yet another war, between Heaven and Hell, played out here on Earth."

"So how do we stop it?" Dean asks, voice void of hostility for the first time since their conversation began.

"You don't," he responds with an odd quirk of his brow, as if to say, _obviously, you can't._ "These battles have been going on forever, or seemingly so. And they'll go on forever more, until the very end of this world."

"And we're just supposed to let that happen?" he asks, voice rising. "We're just supposed to sit back and do nothing?"

"We do what we can," John says, turning to his son, "what we have to."

"That's right," Tavish concurs. "You do what you can, but you are still only men. This is not your war. I think that's what drove your boyfriend so insane, wanting to be, or feeling he should be, a part of something he's simply not," he says with a glance towards Tessa.

"So it was for nothing," she intones. "All of it. He died for nothing?"

"Isn't that so often the case?" he asks, a bitter sort of sympathy oozing from his words.

"And what about you?" Dean asks with a glare. "What do you do, _watch_ all of this, just sit there and let it happen?"

Tavish ducks his head, the first sign of humility to come out of him. "It is my job to watch," he says solemnly. "Once, I did more than my job. We all grew tired of sitting idly by while men suffered and died, fought for and against nothing, believing nothing." He looks up, a dreamy context to his eyes. "We swore an oath, of solidarity and of service. In your texts it's written that the oath was made so that we all could exalt in depravity together, sharing the guilt, shouldering the blame as one. But it wasn't lust or envy that drove us to do what we did."

"What did you do?" Sam asks, voice small.

"We illuminated the secrets of the dark, taught you things you shouldn't have known. Bred with you to create a species capable of…more. We thought we'd be doing mankind a favor, giving him the knowledge necessary to live as an enlightened being. But we were wrong." He stops just long enough to look around the room, take in the faces of those he had failed all those millennia ago. "We taught you about weapons, and you used them on one another. We showed you how to write, and you created false gospels and propaganda. Cosmetics led to whoredom, jewelry and adornments to pride, envy. We tried to show you all that you were capable of, and you squandered your powers, used them for personal gain."

"It's like the tree of knowledge," Sam says simply. "We weren't meant to know."

He nods profoundly. "We, at least, were cast down for a reason. Our expulsion from Heaven is more than understandable. Though we were only trying to do good…well, what is it they say? Even the best intentions and all."

"And now you're back to just watching?"

"No," he says, almost a whisper. "But now we are more cautious, sticking to the shadows, never getting directly involved. We can't. When last we did, the only thing that could rid the world of the evil we created was a great flood."

"Wait," Bobby chimes in suddenly, "the flood was real?"

Tavish waves a dismissive hand. "Euphemism. But many died none the less."

"Okay," Sam says, still clearly trying to work it all out in his head. "But now…"

"Don't worry about now. Don't worry about what I do. You're the only ones that can save your fellow men. Angels, demons, those in between, we can't directly intervene. We sometimes do, but we _can't_. You're the hope for the future," he says, connecting eerily with Sam's eyes. "And I assure you, there will be more fighting in the future."

"But what are they planning now? If we know, maybe we can be more prepared, figure out…"

"You already know too much. Too much for the side of Heaven to allow, they can't have others knowing what you do. And it's too much for the side of Hell, all you know standing in their way of conducting terror on Earth. You do as your father said, as you've been doing all along. That's how you help. Even the smallest victories are worth celebrating."

"That's it," Dean challenges. "We come here for answers and all we get is, Ben went nuts hearing demonic voices and we have to go on doing what we've been doing? Even though there's a war brewing, one we're obviously smack in the middle of?"

"That's it," he confirms. "I know you'd like it to be more, but it's not." He pulls himself up off the couch, buttons his suit jacket daintily once he's standing. "You won't hear from me again," he says simply, eyes flashing to everyone in the room. "And I don't expect to hear from any of you either. Just remember," he mutters as he reaches the door, "You are in danger. Both sides want you gone. You may not be their top priority right now. There is a lot going on out there. But eventually, someone will hunt each of you down."

Tavish leaves, both families standing in stunned silence until, "Well," tumbles out in an awkward breath from Dean, followed quickly by, "That's just great."


End file.
